


Violet Eyes

by Miistical



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Crossdressing, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Multiple Countries, Nyotalia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miistical/pseuds/Miistical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of the same repetitive schedule day after day, Madeline heads out to see the world. Not the people, who never seem to notice her, but their lands. But, after staying away from the nations, she forgets a very important detail. When a country enters a land that is not theirs, the country in question will know. Luckily for Madeline, it doesn't mean that they know which country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Picture Never Taken

Madeline hadn't figure out her problem until she snapped out of her Netflix binge for the fifth time that late autumn night. Over the past few years she had always felt discontent with herself, but could never put a name to it. In the glow of her laptop, Madeline found her answer in a wonderfully silly crime show about officers from every country having to work together to catch an international robber, stereotypes and accents included.

Or, in her mind, what her life used to be like.

Madeline was, simply put, _tired_. She was tired of the questioning looks; of being looked through; of not being recognized as one of the biggest and most helpful countries; of not being known in any sense of the word.

Over the centuries she had put up with this - as getting at least some recognition was apparently too much for the other countries - but it was the 21st century! Surely they would have noticed her by now? Oh, hell, they probably wouldn't notice her if she started WWIII!

Madeline blew out a steady stream of air and crossed her forearms over her eyes. Okay, that was a little melodramatic, even by Francis' standards. Besides, even if she _did_ start WWIII, they would still probably blame it on Alfred. Madeline giggled at the image and removed her arms from her eyes, blinking a few times against the little black spots that swam in her vision.

However, her delight ended as swiftly as it came, but instead of renewed anger taking its place, melancholy rose to the surface with a familiar pang. Madeline wrapped her arms around her legs and curled into a ball - a childish shield against her emotions, but a much needed one.

It _was_ technically her own fault; all of these instances of mistaken identity and invisible words. All those years of fading into the background whilst finding out about her, seemingly random, magical ability had not done her justice.

As a young colony Madeline had often disguised herself (in an escape towards the horrible treatment of women) as a boy. From Francis the feat had be near impossible, but when Arthur had became her guardian the facade was much simpler; Arthur had spent his days full thanks to Alfred. It was, again, thanks to Arthur that she had developed her ironic magic of invisibility - Alfred had his strength, but that was easy to guess by his pass time of throwing around animals that were ten times larger than him as a child.

 _'And_ ,' Madeline internally groaned, ' _let's not forget the fact that I haven't seen another nation face to face for a good few decades or so. God, no_ wonder _they don't recognize me by now; I'm practically a hermit!'_

Even Alfred, the United States of America, her _younger brother_ , hadn't seen her in those years. She hadn't want him come over: Madeline knew he'd only stay for five minutes and not come back for another twenty years. Neither of them really had time to spare for the other; especially with Alfred always being a tad bit sick thanks to his declining economy.

However, there was always a weird tick Alfred seemed to have, though a well deserved one. Anytime the two would talk, either by email or phone, he would always tell her to send a picture.

One time, as the siblings were catching up, Alfred had brought up how he didn't have any pictures of her. At first Madeline had been confused, but as Alfred kept going on and on she had to quickly hang up because her gasps had slowly grown in volume; her tears clouding her eyes and staining her glasses.

_"C'mon, Mads! I have tons of pics of you as a dude - and Mattie is an awesome bro, don't get me wrong - but I kinda want pics of my totally amazing sis! Like, is that such a bad thing to want? I mean... hey, are you ok-?"_

It was true that Madeline had made sure to cut her hair short and wear masculine clothing while around the others; she was practically born into the role of a boy. Even when they didn't notice her, it was far too risky to chance that even those she almost never talked to wouldn't notice the sudden change in sex. So, because of that, Alfred was right: He had pictures of Matthew, but never Madeline.

However, ever since she just stopped going - the reason was still a blur on that one, Madeline could never quite remember what tipped the scale - her hair had grown long and wavy and her old clothes were no longer worn. Truthfully she had no reason to _not_ go see her brother, but something was holding her back.

Madeline sighed again (this much sighing could not be good for anyone) curled up on the couch even more, tucking her knees against her collar bone. Her thoughts raced wildly and refused to be contained until a soft noise rose from the floor.

Kumarie, her sweet polar bear, finally woke from her previous nap. Madeline smiled and reached down for her centuries-old companion for a much needed cuddle. Kuma seemed to sense whenever she felt unhappy and promptly stopped whatever it was she had been doing to help.

Kumarie cuddled up to her and stilled to let Madeline run her fingers through Kuma's fur; the softness calming her inner thunder. In place of the thunder was a bright sky, filled with ideas and possibilities. One in particular had her eyes bright and sparkling and caused her hand to still; in the silence of her paused show, her mind was loud and chaotic.

_'Why didn't I think of this before?'_

Madeline squealed internally, _'I've always wanted to see the world as the_ world _, the land and the creations along the way; and now I can! I'll just be another tourist visiting foreign countries! And when I'm done, I'll go see Al and we can take that picture together - I mean, it's not like I have anything pressing to do!'_

As Madeline brought up the world map in her mind's eye, she decided to start in Western Europe and make her way back home: start with Spain and end in America. But as Madeline rushed to start her country hopping, she forgot something - something important - in her time away.

If another country were to step unto the land of another, of which was not their own, then that country would know. That if Canada were to step unto Spain's land, then Spain would know. Thank God no one would know _which_ country was there.

Or was that a good thing?


	2. From Canada to Spain

It was a week before the next World Conference was to start and Antonio was spending it walking among his people. Like always, it was a bright day in his beautiful Barcelona, and his lovely citizens filled the many cafés that lined the streets. Liveliness was a given and the sounds and smells traveled well throughout the streets; not one person would walk among the colors and sights without a smile etched into their cheeks and eyes.

Yet Antonio could not focus on the sweetness in the air nor the greetings that rang in his ears; he was strangely concentrated as he looked for the Nation he had felt earlier in the week. He did not ignore the jovial people with their loud and booming laughter, but neither did he stop like he would on any other day. He nodded and smiled and waved, but it was obvious that he was not in a "stay and chat" mood. Antonio was, of all things, the exact opposite.

His anxiety-ridden pace was the end in a very complicated equation. At the beginning of the week he had sensed another Nation entering his own. However, the fact of this would not have gave him chills but for two small details: Everyone would be together at the World Conference in France soon enough - there would be no need for any of his fellow Nations to visit - and the Nation in gave him the feeling that it was either Captain Eyebrows or Francis.

Antonio slowed his pace to an exhausted halt. He rubbed the back of his head and tried to refocus on the Nation's energy, relying on his centuries old knowledge in search for where, and more importantly _who_ , they could be. The Nation felt oh-so familiar in the way England or Francis was, but Antonio had made sure England knew better than to visit unannounced and Francis wouldn't dare to leave his home with a Conference - and impending headache - in the works so soon.

Sadly the Nation evaded him another time and Antonio picked his route up again, this time making a beeline towards the nearest place with seats. He had managed to narrow in on Barcelona just the day before - Valencia and Madrid being his first picks in the start of his budding curiosity - but now he could not pinpoint the feeling any closer than what was, more or less, blatant tourist attractions.

However, when the mystery was finally solved, Antonio wouldn't be too sure if it was the answer he wanted.

A glance was all it took: a simple turn of the head, a flick of the eyes. But that moment lead to his whole body freezing as an unnatural chill whispered down his spine. Antonio, in one of the few times in his long life, felt _cold._ Not the hollow feeling of defeat at the hands of a hated enemy, yet it was neither the true feeling of temperature. Antonio just felt as if ice encased his lungs, his heart, his blood and it would not thaw; not with passion nor with heat.

It was such a simple cause, too. All he had noticed was a young woman. She looked as others looked, all light skin and light hair like many others there; in a café that meant to scam non-natives and natives alike. But Antonio could see it, the sheer _difference_ she carried. While women just as light and just as beautiful roamed the streets, her beauty was that of a landscape and not of a human. It was of snow-capped mountains and sprinkled stars rather than gleaming smiles and dotted freckles.

 _She_ was his uncounted for Nation.

Antonio, frantic as ever, dipped his eyes to her hair, to her clothes, to her hands, to her skin. This woman had the air of both England and Francis; the regal air England tried so hard to manufacture seemed to cling to the air around her and the softness of her presence nearly vibrated with a "let love, love" feeling Francis always strived for. She was them both, yet neither; a sweet combination of the twos' greatest traits.

He nearly rubbed his eyes, sure that he was just dreaming. Antonio could have never seen it being her, though it was so obvious at the same time.

She held a tea cup in her hands, her fingers keeping it aloft by just the tips. Her legs were crossed, the right gently over the knee of her left, her hair in a high ponytail. Antonio had no eye for fashion but his French friend would most likely be impressed: rich green sandals, gold shorts, and an off-shoulder ruby shirt that fit her like a glove. Antonio could practically hear his friend's low and appreciative whistle and nearly turned his head to see before he remembered where he was, what he was doing, and that he was alone.

The thought snapped him out of his, admittedly creepy, trance. Antonio flushed, a light pink nearly invisible against the tinted shade of his skin, and ducked into the café's open door. He hoped that the café's awning was a good shield to hide his loitering, but he waited inside just long enough to be a second too late.

When Antonio stepped through the door, the woman outside narrowed her eyes in disbelief. While her features were soft, her eyes were anything but: they were crystallized gems awaiting their turn to cut diamonds into the shapes they craved.

She stood, quickly, and gathered her things with nimble fingers set at an unhurried pace. If she moved a second too fast, someone would notice; they would see her frantic eyes, would see the clench of her jaw, would see that _she was not supposed to be there_.

The woman gracefully pivoted on her feel and set off from that stand - she needed to be somewhere, anywhere, that was not there and fast. However, it seemed that fate was against her and wished to scorn her that day for Antonio was out the door in that same second with the full intention of getting her to tell him who she was. Antonio had never seen her at the World Conference, or any other meeting for that matter, and had to know if this was the end or the beginning for the rest of them.

He never got passed ten feet.

Antonio called out to her, hoping that any exclamation would slow her down, and it did. Just not in the way he expected her to.

Instead of stalling or coming to a dead stop, the woman whipped back around, words alight on her tongue that never made it to Antonio's ears. She spoke alright, but her accent was drowned out by the sudden roaring static that he heard, an absolute noise that muted everything.

Antonio blinked.

It was all in her eyes. They were azure, cobalt, violet, lavender, periwinkle, green, grey - they were every color clashing together. Storm clouds and mountain tops, glaciers and wild flowers, forests and deserts; her eyes beheld history Antonio hadn't ever thought about.

Humanity had the sweet dream of eyes being the windows to the soul. This was a partial truth that the Nations themselves held dear: their eyes conveyed their land and their people, the sacrifices they had made and the wars they had won. She was, she _had_ , to be a Nation.

But, even after she left with a huff and no backward glaces, Antonio couldn't help the feeling that reached far back into his own past. Couldn't help the feeling that he had seen those eyes somewhere before.

* * *

 _A small, blonde head poked out shyly from its place in the arms of_ _Antonio's longtime friend, Francis._ _Antonio wished so dearly to coo over the awaited colony, but his precious_ tomate _refused to let him touch Francis' charge. Little Southern Italy had said that New France would get "even more messed up" if_ _Antonio were to hold him._

 _Still, it was a time to bond and celebrate. Francis had finally brought his new charge over and the excited Frenchman was ecstatic to show him "the most adorable colony that would put nasty old Eyebrows to shame" and then some. Honestly, even though_ _Antonio was always happy and ready to shove something great in England's face and declare he could never have it, the Spaniard was excited to meet the new Nation._

 _In fact, when little_ Matthieu _was brought out in the arms of his greatest friend,_ _Antonio was positive even his hot-tempered Romano was interested in meeting the new Nation. New France would be the closest to his physically age, and though Romano would never admit to wanting such a companion, curiosity gnawed at him from the inside-out._

So Francis brought forth his colony, all grand gestures and dramatic flair, over to meet

_Antonio and his own charge, they were both confused and shocked at what laid so still in the European's arms._

_There, as fair as the man whom held him, was a small body draped in white. A little angel Romano would whisper in his mind before he would dig up any sort of distaste for him while_ _Antonio breathed a hushed question to Francis; had he found a cherub in the new land?_

 _Francis would laugh, delighted in his friend's question, and respond that New France was truly a new Nation and not a holy image. Never in this transaction did New France speak, not once, but_ _Antonio got enough just from the boy's eyes._

_Antonio saw so much potential there - there was so much room to stretch, so much land unexplored or uninhabited. It was almost a ritual to guess what newer colonies would grow to be but Francis and_ _Antonio could guess nothing less than "everything"._

_Yes, New France had the capability to transform into everything._

* * *

Madeline was back at the hotel she picked out when she first came to Spain, her breath catching almost every time she paused to draw a breath. Her sweet Kumarie was curled up on her pillow, exactly the same as when she left to see the sights the "Country of Passion" had to offer her, but she herself had came back with a different light.

She was sure, at the time in that wonderful square, that the man she had seen was Spain. Sure, it had been years since she'd last seen a good close look at his face, but Madeline was no fool; she could tell a Nation apart just as well as her brother could.

Now, Madeline sat immobile in her room, her heart slowed to its steady thump while she cursed herself in every language she knew for reacting in such a way. It was almost shameful how she fled; both the first and second times.

Madeline had long convinced herself that a brunette with green eyes in Spain of all places should be, and was, common. That he could have been both a tourist or a native who simply took a liking to her - years in solitude could have easily given her some confidence issues, right?

But she knew the myth, Madeline remembered it well. Remembered how the eyes were practically a gateway and how his almost _glowed_ with intensity, with a bone-deep sense of history only veterans could ever hope to obtain. That man, that _Nation_ , knew warfare just as well as any Empire, who knew hunger and starvation and sickness.

Madeline cut off her train of thought there and simply left it as a flight or fight sort of instinct and that it was not going to interfere with anything. How could it, anyway? Madeline was positive that while Spain may know what she was, there was no doubt in her mind that he knew who she was. She wasn't too sure if that was a comfortable thing to hold and declare as her own, but she didn't really have much else to call hers.

Madeline sighed and rolled back on her bed, her eyes drilling holes into the ceiling above. She had spent a week in Spain and was ready for the next country and a smile stretched her lips in fond memories as she thought of the Nation in question.

_'It's been a very long while. I hope it's still as beautiful as always.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: France did 'show off' Canada, New France at the time, to other countries; primarily his allies, hence Spain and his own charge of Southern Italy.


	3. From Spain to France

A few hours before the World Conference in France was suppose to convene, said Nation was quietly grumbling at his fate. Francis was strolling through the many rose gardens his Conference Center tended to with pride. He loved the sweetness in the air and the colors that danced with the breeze, but the scene was ruined by a sharp pain that pitched just behind his eyes.

With all those noisy, uncultured Nations in one place Francis was surprised he could stand on his own, let alone walk anywhere. The throbbing in his head was relentless, but he'd be damned to ask any help from the more magically inclined Nations; his dear _Rosbif_ would hold it over his head for the next thousand years and probably beyond.

So the pain laden Frenchman did nothing but take some human medication and loiter about the multiple gardens as he tried, so desperately tried, to clear his mind. The pain, however, seemed to hate him especially that day.

Another burst of pain shot down his spine like bullets and Francis, all the while clutching his head, yelped, "Why can't those buffoons behave with dignity?!"

Francis huffed and massaged his nape and temples, his stride taking a focused footing as he marched away from the Conference Center. If his fellow Nations couldn't be bothered to spare him, then he would put the much needed distance between them himself.

Every and all alarm possible rang through his head which each step he took, but every step also quieted the harsh beat that knocked an out-of-tune rhythm against his skull. While Francis wasn't too happy about the arrangement, the further he walked, the calmer he felt.

God, how he hated this time of the year.

Francis paused in his walk, red roses on his left and white roses on his right, and tilted his head back. His eyes took in the wide, blue sky and the plump clouds that dotted it. Birds flew unobstructed and planes soared even higher. The mixture of natural beauty and humanity never ceased to amaze him and, with that in mind, the last wisp of his headache melted away.

Thankful for the reprieve, Francis sighed and stretched his arms above his head, his lavender shirt riding up in the way he had tailored it to. Francis gave himself a little grin and linked his hands together behind his head.

 _'Ah, yes, how lovely it is to be as beautiful as me!'_ Francis thought as he regretfully tugged his shirt back into place. _'If only there was an equally beautiful man or woman around to make this moment all that much sweeter~!'_

Francis didn't expect his wish to be granted.

The breeze kicked up and sent a flutter of petals into the wind; swirls of red and white and pink in a light dance, waltzing along the trees. He followed their slow descent back to the ground with his eyes and, down the back of his neck, a chill swept through him. Francis shivered at the strange coldness and stilled with a harsh gasp. A Nation? Here?

And, with ice in his blood, that feeling reminded Francis of none other than a certain Russian brute; he, too, chilled the heart of many once he crossed their border.

Francis' eyes sharpened and glanced around, trying his hardest to pick apart the scenery that, apparently, hid another Nation. With everyone settled in his Conference Center, Francis hadn't noticed them before, but as he walked further and deeper into the rose garden, the chill grew. When it grew no more, Francis walked slower and with more caution. Quite a few Nations didn't care for him, Francis knew that, and didn't wish to get punched so soon before the meeting.

His eyes grew wide and Francis cursed himself. The meeting! What was he doing, searching for another Nation like this?

 _'Honestly, I am the host for this month! Whoever this is may be late, but I refuse to be absent during my own meeting!'_ Francis huffed and spun back around, ready to get back to the meeting and his horrible headache. But before he could take a single step, his eyes sought the mystery he had just been looking for and he, again, was swept up in shivers.

There, so delicately folded on a wrought-iron bench, was a vibrant woman. She looked like the feeling Francis had gotten: a chill and shiver that spoke of snowy hills and ice skating, so different from Russia's bone-freezing ice and isolation. Instead of silver hair, she had gold; instead of hard planes, she had soft curves.

Who _was_ she?

This woman had to be a Nation, but Francis had never seen her before - he would eat Arthur's cooking before he would forget this woman, this Prima Ballerina. He would commit her to memory and paint her later, Francis decided. He would start from her legs, how they were adorned in spiraling ribbons and tucked beneath her; how the same pink ribbon tied her hair into a masterful braid. He would not forget the way her head laid upon her hands, as if she were a nameless, sleeping princess. She reminded Francis of a Springtime fairy with her white summer dress and this confused Francis: What Nation looked like her?

It turned out that Francis would not find out that detail that day. Or that month, for that matter.

One step was all it took for her eyes to snap open and dart to him. In a flash of recognition she was up, standing, and Francis was frozen into place. He was so sure to remember her entirely, but when he would paint her eyes later, the canvas would stare at him mockingly, for he would not be able to get the color right. It was the emotion in it that he could not recreate he would say, that the color shifted far too numerous, that some of the colors he saw _could not exist_.

But in the present all he could do was stare and wonder. Francis could not convince himself that he did not know her, but he could not have known her either. So, when she slipped past him and disappeared into the roses, he did not follow her. Instead, she followed him; her image haunted him as he walked back to the Center and, even with the noise and the pain and the chaos, it did not leave him.

It did not occur to him, until he finally shed his clothes for that evening, that she had placed a budding rose in his pocket.

* * *

 _Ever since_ Rosbif _, that brute, had taken little_ Matthieu _away from him, Francis had not seen him since._

 _Of course_ Rosbif _would let_ Matthieu _visit him, but that was whenever the mood struck the Englishman, which was practically never. Francis suspected it had something more to do with Canada (how Francis shuddered to recognize his beloved New France's new name) and those eyes of his that begged to see his_ Papa _. But, like every child,_ Matthieu _grew up and no longer needed Francis._  
 _  
Canada had rightfully gained independence and the Nation himself could no longer be Francis' son, though it pained the Frenchman greatly when he truly realized how short a time he was in_ Matthieu's _life. He was his own man with no need for his_ Papa _to hold him._

 _It was something that Francis refused to accept, even when he heard the news of his_ Matthieu _burning down his brother's house. Everything just got worse from there._

_Throughout the next 100 years Matthew (again, Francis' heart almost could not take the erasure of his ex-colony's French roots) was far too busy to see him, though Francis wouldn't blame him. Francis had given up long ago, it was not Matthew's fault._

_Then came those retched World Wars and how fierce he turned. Matthew showed how cunning he was - the true brutality of his native people - and that mercy held no name for him or those he slaughtered. Matthew was a beast, and Francis could no longer remember how sweet his eyes had been._

_Matthew, when he was a little colony, always had the most entrancing eyes. How, even in the 90s, they reminded him of that little child crying out in the middle of a storm; of hiding beneath the rose bushes; of going into the library and placing himself on Francis' lap to listen to his old stories._

_Now, when he ever had the time to spare a thought, Francis wondered if he should call Matthew. But, of course, his attention went elsewhere and the thought disappeared._

_Francis never did wonder about that empty, extra seat._

* * *

The World Conference was going as it usually did: _horrible_.

There was fighting and screaming and kicking; Nations were clawing at each other and making a ruckus. It was as if the entire room was filled with chaos in a gas form and infused itself in the lungs of everyone present.

It was, however, quite a strange meeting as well. Two Nations, whom normally participated with glee, were sitting still in their chairs. Together, though they did not know it, their thoughts were filled with the same mysterious woman.

Yet no one noticed the two's suspicious silence and simply carried on with their own arguments; they did not bother with the unusual silence. The others only noticed when lunch was over with, their stomachs full and attitudes dragging, that these specific Nations had not joined them.

Both France and Spain were in their respective seats, eyes trained on a particular spot in the room, but it was obvious that they were not actually _seeing_. Most of the Nations were surprised; France and Spain were not known to be analysts or thinkers and none of them were sure if they'd ever seen the two like they were now.

They were so still that they seemed to not be breathing, so the sudden sigh from Spain caused them to jump - including, thankfully, the two comatose Nations themselves. France and Spain blinked and glanced from the empty chairs that surrounded them to the standing, gobsmacked Nations huddled near the door.

It was England who broke the silence first. "Okay, what is wrong with you two this time?"

Prussia, a mostly unwelcome and unwilling guest of the meetings, looked worried for his two friends. He uncomfortably asked, "Yo, Franny? Toni? You two, uh, okay?"

The two snapped out of their confusion quickly and each began to speak. Their words slurred with the other's and all meaning was lost to the confused Nations. In one gaping second of silence, Germany took the opportunity granted to him and shouted, "Will you two _stop_!"

France and Spain halted completely and Germany said, "One of you explain this. Just. One."

The two old allies looked to each other their eyes silently asking the other if they wanted to speak first. France motioned towards Spain to start first and the Spaniard nodded and took a deep breath before he launched into his story. A few times he was stopped by Germany telling him to calm down, speak slower, and leave out all unnecessary details. So, with another deep breath, Spain restarted his story.

"I had felt a Nation in Spain a week ago," the beginning alone garnered a few uncomfortable looks, most hating having to talk in 3rd person, "and I went to find out who it was since the meeting was here, so no one really had any reason to come to Spain."

Said Nation himself was fidgeting with the awkward explanation, but Spain pushed himself through it, "I both found and didn't find out who it was. There was a woman I found that felt like one of us, but I had never seen her before! I know I have though, she seemed really familiar, but by the time I got close enough to ask, she left! Disappeared! Poofed!"

Spain, in his story, left out the woman's freezing look all together, not wanting the others to take his story as another "interesting human" tale that so many of them had. Unfortunately he could already see the others shaking their head at him - Spain knew he was never considered the sharpest - and so pleadingly turned his head to France.

France caught his look and gave a reassuring nod to his friend. Without any prompting, France began his own story of just a few hours ago, and made sure to stare down the others into understanding that he was absolutely serious.

"Well, while I was just trying to get rid of the headache you all give me by being here all at once," France made sure to glare at England in particular, "I simply stumbled upon the _same woman_ Toni was speaking of. Also, like Antonio, she simply disappeared! She felt like one of us as well, I bargain a Northern Nation, and her eyes!"

Unlike Spain, France did not hold back. He knew how sacred the eyes were to Nations and France made sure to use that to his advantage, "I would describe it for you, but you all know how impossible it is to put history into words."

The others shifted with the knowledge that, somehow, France was right. However, in the silence that followed, China brought up a major question, "How do we know that she was not just an African, Middle East, or Latin Nation, aru? They still have problems on getting to the meetings, but maybe one found their way-?" China was cut off by Spain shaking his head, firm that China was wrong.

France was also nodding with him, "She didn't look anything like one of those Nations, China, or even _from_ one of those countries! If anything, she looked like a citizen of mine. Light hair and light complexion, she had to be European to some degree: Definitely not Latin, African, or Middle East. Besides, they're all darker in tones; even _if_ some African or Middle Eastern Nations are white. Plus, if one of them did make it, wouldn't they be here, in this meeting right now?"

France did bring up a valid point and so, in regretful surrender, Germany rubbed his temples. He knew the two would not let go of the mysterious woman. "France, is she still here?"

France merely sighed and shook his head, "I would not know. Since everyone is here, it would be very hard to tell."

Germany sighed again, but a tug on his sleeve made him lean down to hear whatever it was Italy had to say to him.

The German man raised an eyebrow at the rather smart idea the small Italian had and straightened back up as Italy clung to his arm. Germany ignored his friend and cleared his throat, "I think it would be best that if anyone else were to see this woman in their country, take a picture if you can. We might be able to identify her as such. So, in the mean time, no one goes to someone else's country. If someone does see her, but cannot get a picture, call someone as soon as you do. Perhaps there will be a pattern involved."

Italy jumped from his perch on Germany's arm and asked, "It's pretty obvious everyone is really tired, so can we end the meeting now, Luddy?"

Neck burning at the smattering of chuckles, Germany nodded to his friend's request. Everyone gathered up their things and there was a pretty even divide between them: they either wrote off what France and Spain said to be ridiculous and a waste of time (such as England, Switzerland, and Norway) or they took what they said to heart and wondered if they were going to meet this possibly new Nation as well (like Italy, South Korea, and Denmark).

Either way, every Nation had their mind filled with the woman. But some were more suspicious than others. _  
_

* * *

Madeline came back from the park, less frazzled than her time in Spain, but weary none the less.  
Just like in Spain, Kumarie was snuggled up to a pillow that sat on the foot of the bed, in the same position as when Madeline left. However, unlike Spain, Madeline was far too tired to even make it to the bed and practically collapsed on the floor next to it. She closed her eyes in fatigue, the feeling of Kumarie nuzzling her brow and wonderful anchor.

Madeline didn't know why she had given Francis the rose she had bought earlier in the week or why she didn't wait to see that if maybe, just maybe, he would know who she was. She wasn't sure why she did quite a few things at this point and after replaying the moments in her mind, Madeline opened her eyes and sighed.

She didn't even know why she didn't just leave in the first place.

_'Because he looked lonely.'_

Madeline sat up sharply as the thought gently wove itself through her subconsciousness. But, now that she thought about it, Francis had seemed rather sad. Madeline shook her head, wisps of hair coming undone from her meticulous braid, and thought, _'No. No, sad isn't the word but neither is lonely. Francis was just... he was just stricken.'_

With his eyes locked onto her, as if she were a ghost of a past he wanted to forget yet could not bare to part with, Madeline had never seen her former father figure so filled with emotion. He was a wonderful _Papa_ , Madeline would never forget that, but she never saw him as a person either.

Just like a human child, she took her parent for granted.

Madeline wished she could go back to the park to have Francis find her again, but this time, she would give him a hug. Give him a kiss on the cheek and say hello, tell him who she was. But, no, she had a country to get to and clothes to pack. Besides, it would be foolish for Madeline to think that it was just Francis who needed a hug; the fantasy was as much for her as it was for him.

_'Oh, well. Nothing can be done about it now. I just hope he found something worth while today...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: After losing to England in the Seven Years' War, France's punishment was giving up Canada during the Treaty of Paris in 1763. The part with Canada burning down 'his' brother's house is connected to when the American's burned down York during the War of 1812, only for the Canadian's to burn down D.C. During the World Wars, Canada was known for being fierce and was the one to push the Germans back with its Shock Troops.


	4. From France to England

When Arthur had returned home, the words of the perverse _Frog_ and idiotic _Dago_ still ringing in his ears, he knew that that day was going to be especially unpleasant and decided, quite firmly, that the only way to distract himself completely from their foolish behaviors and vague lies was to get heavily _plastered_.  
  
After a few hours and five too many pubs and bars, Arthur was back out on the streets in the early AM. He had never learned just how emotional he got when he drank and had started the night confused and miffed at getting kicked out, but that ended soon with the more alcohol he had managed to find. Thankfully, for both him and the other bar patrons, most had shut down by the time he tipped just passed "too affectionate". Now, a slur to his tongue and a sway in his walk, Arthur was striding down his city streets in a near pitch blackness.  
  
Arthur was not really a fan of walks in parks or down lanes, but the quiet tranquility of the empty office buildings around him struck him with a bout of nostalgia. He sighed, not sure why the feeling was there, and could physically feel his body rejecting the liquor he had drank not less than an hour ago. Arthur wasn't sure what saddened him more: the bright shafts of light from empty structures, the poor people whom stayed up far too late inside and alone, or the feeling of sobriety that brought back his sharper senses and thought processes.  
  
As a Nation his alcohol tolerance was higher than any human's, but was still very low when compared to the other Nations. However, this only meant that Arthur had to drink more to get the same effects of drunkenness, only to have the feeling stave off quickly in regards to his high metabolism. Not even all the prime bourbon or whiskey in the world could get Arthur to the amount he needed to drive off his unwanted thoughts and feelings; the only thing he would ever reach was to be shameless and half-nude - and that was level even he didn't want to reach.  
  
In his head, lost and wandering, Arthur was not made aware quick enough of the impending pole in his way. Thus, a single woman in one of the buildings above was shaken awake by a loud yelp and thud from outside; her jump toppling papers to the ground and her rush to grab them wiped away any question formed by the crash.  
  
Meanwhile, outside, with a bruised forehead and an even more bruised ego, laid Arthur. His arms and legs were outstretched in the remnants of his ungraceful and pathetic attempted to regain footing. So, on the sidewalk near three in the morning, Arthur could feel himself give up and cursed towards the overcast sky for his unbearable bad luck.  
  
Instead of standing back up, Arthur glanced to his right and made the decision that it was clean enough to lean against. While he wasn't all that tired for sleep, he was physically exhausted, and his placement deep in his home made him feel comfortable and secure. So, in light of having nothing to do and no where to go, Arthur stayed seated.  
  
Sadly, that wasn't the only thing he was able to do. His mind raced, its speed still sluggish by his earlier alcohol intake, though gaining momentum, and Arthur could feel day old disbelief and irritation rise yet again.  
  
 _'They're just going bonkers,'_ Arthur thought, every fiber of himself going into tearing the metaphorically limbs off the _Frog_ and _Dago_ \- the _Kraut_ as well while he was at it.  
  
However, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself, insulting them inside his head just wasn't as rewarding as he hoped it would be. Arthur sighed, a deep and heavy puff of air, and stood to lean again the wall instead of sitting at the base of it. After a moment of thinking he switched directions and followed the path towards the forest rather than his old Victorian home.  
  
Of course no one else would know this forest existed; a cloak of magic covered it from the prying eyes of his citizens. And while he was saddened that he had to hide his dearest friends from the humans he considered his children, it was times like this that had him thankful that the woodland creatures were his and his alone.  
  
The thought of the Fae and Little Folk sent a wave of heat through him, Arthur's own magic responding gleefully. The last threads of hold that the alcohol had on him snapped away, burned by his boiling blood, and Arthur was swept away in a sense of rightness followed by a horrible and cold numb of dread. With the liquor no longer in his system, Arthur was finally made aware of a pulsating beacon deep in his chest.  
  
There was a Nation in his heart.  
  
The words of Germany echoed in his head - " _So, in the mean time, no one goes to someone else's country._ " - and a chill pricked the back of Arthur's neck, the hairs there standing up. No one would be foolish enough to disrespect the German's orders nor would they have a reason to visit _him_.  
  
Arthur, unaware that he had stopped walking, resumed his pace towards the forest. The beat of the other Nation was in time to his heart, a pressure pressed over every inch of skin. They had to be close by.  
  
Yet, even with his fellow Nation's words and the feeling itself, Arthur refused to believe it and ignored it altogether. So he cursed himself, greatly and with much color, when he tensed as a shadow's silhouette stretched from a flickering lamppost.  
  
Arthur swallowed his sailor's tongue for a gentleman's smile and lead his feet to the now-visible woman standing there, her back facing him. Arthur was directly across the lane from her when he readied his words; she could simply be a worker taking a break or a foreigner who had one too many drinks and could not find her way back. But Arthur never got to ask his question for he was hit with a chill once again and the woman turned her eyes to him.  
  
She definitely looked the part of an officer worker - hair in a neat bun, low heeled shoes, a deep read Tyrolean jacket, jet black pencil skirt - but that did not match her posture, her pose, at all. While Arthur's hand were deep in his pockets, her's rested in the crooks of her elbows, as if to ward off others in a show of hostility. It matched how she balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to bound and leap away in a split second.  
  
Still, Arthur refused to back down from his theory and was ready to prove it by speaking to her, but when his eyes caught her's, everything was over. He knew that she was the same woman both Antonio and Francis had seen, knew that the chill in his bones and pulse in his heart was because of her - and while he could not make out the color as the other two could, Arthur knew it would be just as how they described it; utterly indescribable.  
  
The lights above her flickered, a halo going on and off, before it simply gave out. The dark was brutal before the lamp seemed to lurch back to life, but the ruse she needed was made and the woman, the _Nation_ , was gone. She vanished - " _...she left! Disappeared! Poofed!_ " " _Also, like Antonio, she simply disappeared!_ " - like mist upon a snowy bank and Arthur deeply wished he could have just written this off as a drunken hallucination, but he knew he had been sober long before he had even turned onto this street.  
  
So Arthur did the last thing he ever wanted to: He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, whose he didn't know nor cared, and said the simplest of words that started a massive, rolling snow ball. He took a breath and whispered, "I saw her."

* * *

_This..._ this _was quite the surprise. Matthew, his younger brother, had just asked for freedom. Even with the youngest of their brothers looking towards Matthew for help - a flair of anger and pain burned through him as he remember Alfred had looked to_ him _like that once - Matthew still wished to be free and independent. Even though little Leon, Jett, and Kaelin looked to him (and as would Neeraja, his soon-to-be Indian charge), Matthew asked to be... gone.  
  
Of course Arthur had "no" prepared to rise from his throat, but one look from Matthew had him freezing in place. It was a look of curiosity, of slight apprehension, of a secret passion.   
  
This wild light in his eyes... as if he were a survivor of an invisible war or a hero that did not shout out their accomplishments, but instead kept them hidden from view. It held the look of someone wanting, longing, _aching _for something that was just out of reach. It reminded Arthur of all the things he missed from his own elder brothers and their near endless wisdom; not that he would ever tell them that._  
  
Yet, as Matthew kept eye contact with Arthur, there was something softer there, something none of his brother - older and younger alike - would ever have. Matthew was someone willing to be patient and listen to every rambling word, no matter if it made no sense in the end. He was someone who wanted to hold, to lock away every secret, to lift that burden off your own back.   
  
Out of the many years Arthur had taken care of Matthew, he never saw the Canadian boy as someone who soothed away all your fears and ignored their own if that was what it took. That he was someone who wanted to give a hug or a kiss in that desperate time of misery or despair.  
  
It was the look, Arthur was startled to find, that changed the Northern Nation from a boy to a man. And it was thanks to that look he had to accept, just like he did long ago, when he was so unwilling to part with a piece of his family.  
  
So what else was Arthur to do than say yes and let another piece go?

* * *

As Madeline walked through the doors of her hotel, she couldn't help but think of the man she saw underneath the street light. She knew exactly who it was she was looking at, there was hardly a man who looked as Arthur did. Madeline could recognize those pine green and smoke gray eyes, remnants of when he was young as well, and the shagginess of his blond hair was a near dead giveaway.  
  
She also knew how risky it was to use her magic like that, but with how Arthur had looked at her with such strong _regret_ , Madeline just didn't know what else to do. Now Madeline sighed, the walk from the deserted streets leaving her tired, as she dragged herself into her room. This time Kumarie was sitting right at the door, waiting for her dear Person to come back and snuggle.  
  
She smiled at her old companion, but the smile soon slipped off her face as she recounted her steps that night. Of trying to find a place to see the sky as homesickness gnawed at her bones and had her missing the way she could just step outside her home in Canada and easily see the light shining from the moon and stars.   
  
It was a bit harder than she would have expected or have liked, but Madeline knew that the old homes and churches had given her a fill of new things to see. It was decades since she last been to England and she had forgotten all the painful and wonderful memories it brought her by seeing the worn buildings she personally been in right as they were finished being built.  
  
(The same could be said for the ruins of buildings she had been in when they were bombed, but even that was a horror Madeline locked up with Matthew.)  
  
Thankfully her smile wormed back into place as Kumarie tried to find her way inside Madeline's jacket to get even closer to the warmth her body brought. She sighed in loving exasperation; a lighthearted exhale that spoke to Kumarie and said that her Person is going to be alright. Madeline opened her jacket to let her bear snuggle in, both giving the warmth the other needed.  
  
It was how Madeline and Kumarie slept that night: cuddled up against the other, Madeline's legs tucked up and curled around her polar bear.  
  
That same night, as Madeline and Kumarie drifted off to sleep, Arthur was looking out his window, his chin rested in his palm as he lost himself in thought. The feeling this woman was still in England was there, but he did not try to find the woman for the rest of the week. He simply had no want or need to.  
  
Arthur wasn't sure why, but he felt as though he were letting her go for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: After America won its revolution, Canada decided to stay with England as a colony until the time came where Canada showed its strength to England during 1967 (after the World Wars). As for the part of Canada being a 'hero who did not shout their accomplishments'; when the Canadian troops set free the Italians in the end of World War 2, England told the world that it was America's troops instead. Canada never asked for their accomplishment to be known to the public at the time.


	5. From England to Sealand

_'Finally, some time to myself!'_ Peter thought, chest puffed out, _'Those big countries just can't seem to get enough of the Mighty Sealand!'_

Peter knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there must have been a reason for England to let him stay at Sealand. Normally Peter was never allowed on the base without someone there to supervise him, _especially_ now that he offered tours in the summer. But, to Peter's shock, England had let him stay at his beloved fortress until Tino and Berwald picked him up in the next couple of days.

Truthfully, Peter could tell England wouldn't have let him visit Sealand at all if hadn't been for his pleading. The "Royal Jerk of Jerks" seemed even more stressed than usual, but it was only after the fact that Peter even noticed it.

Yet, even when Peter had stopped to question the shadows on England's face, he was already too deep in fixing up and playing on his sweet, sweet home. The thought reared its ugly head in one last attempt at attention when Peter had finally sat to rest, but the micronation was already hopping atop one of the many railings of the fort before it could settle. It finally blew away in the wind as Peter began to swing his legs and hum a melody the old soldiers had taught him before they, too, had left.

To Peter's strong bitterness, that was the thought that stuck in his mind and with it came the face of his ex-older brother. Peter would never forget that it was England who had left him first.

The young micronation sighed and tilted his face to the sky; such memories like that would drive him insane. _'Besides,'_ Peter snorted, _'even if the Jerk hadn't left, he still wouldn't take me seriously.'_

Yes, even though his soul was tethered to this old war fort, Peter was adamant that it made no difference to his Nation status. Whether it was steal and metal or rock and soil had no bearing on how strong it could be - in fact, it should make him stronger! None of the others were awesome enough to be made of the strongest metals on Earth!

Peter released his grip on the railing he still sat on to through his arms in the air with a hearty, "Whoop!" And then promptly fell backwards.

A sudden chill had washed over Peter's entire body, the cold washing his concentration and balance away in an instance. Luckily he fell back towards the fortress, but instead of landing on the floor, Peter's knees had held and his entire upper body went smashing into the railing he had just been sitting on.

With a painful throbbing that from from the base of his spine to the top of his head, Peter couldn't hear the sound of another person climbing the ladder up towards the main fort.

While rubbing the back of his head, Peter finally took in the sound of a running boat down below and the soft clicks of someone walking around the fort. But, no matter how much he wished to turn around to look for this person, to stop staring at the sea, Peter could not move.

There was something wrong here.

The ungodly chill settled deep in his bones and gripped him still, as if some basic part of him knew to keep quiet. He could remember the days where England had told him about older countries, something about leaving a presence behind. Yet, even with the knowledge practically branded into his mind, Peter could not recall the information. So, instead, he worked to get his movement back and promised himself to talk about this with Tino or Berwald later; but right now, he had to protect his home. From... something.

However, after he was able to bring warmth back into his bones, what Peter got wasn't some scary winter monster. It was just a lady.

She stood at the other end of the railing, her profile the only thing he could see. Even still, Peter thought she was pretty, a little too pretty to be visiting an old World War II fortress. _'Maybe she's a rich tourist?'_ he thought. _'They sometimes try and bribe people to take them out here after the summer is over.'_

Peter hopped down from his perch, his landing unnaturally quiet on the metal grating. The micronation crept forward, hands clasped behind his back, hoping to get a closer look at the pretty tourist woman. But as Peter got closer, his steps still muffled, he could see that she reminded him of the pretty man that sometimes bothered England at the World Conference.

Then she turned and Peter's eyes went wide. He knew of Nations looking like each other sometimes - Peter had met the Italy brothers once before - but he was quite sure Nations weren't suppose to look like a mix of them.

She was still very pretty with her long sunny hair, pale skin, and light blue dress. Her white sandals were on the lowest rail, her upper body propped up by her arms as she leaned out above the water. But, even as the wind picked up and her grip tightened on the rail, she didn't look away. No, she let Peter stare up at her like a painting he had been told to never touch.

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and that only set Peter off again. They looked blue and kind of like a purplish color, but also like a greenish color too - but not? Peter gaped at her, sure in the fact that he had to be sleeping. Of course he knew about the Legend of the Eyes - it was always a fun story to tell the other micronations even if the title was a bit hyped - but Peter had never seen eyes that changed color like this.

As he continued to stare, he wondered if even old man China had seen eyes like this. Peter was only snapped out of his reverie when the woman climbed down from the railing and giggled at his, most likely, stupidly shocked face. Cheeks burning, Peter ducked his head into his chest to give him a few seconds to gather himself back up, but when he looked back up, she was gone.

Peter was again left stunned and shocked as the lady was no longer there. It was only a few seconds later that he heard the revving of an engine and the humming it created, slowly getting farther and farther away. Shaking his head, Peter tried to convinced himself that this was why Berwald and Tino - heck, even England - told him to never go anywhere by himself.

He'll start seeing and hearing things.

* * *

_Peter was crying, but at what he couldn't remember. All that he could remember right now were the tears, the pain, the smell of smoke. He was curled up on a soft bed and though his eyesight was blurred, Peter could make out the engraving on the headboard - England's headboard. Of course, he was England's bedroom._

_Yet, even with adrenaline burning a hole into his stomach and veins, Peter simply could not move. All he could do was weep into the worn comforter and wait until someone came to get him. Names and faces flashed behind his tightly closed eyes, but all of that vanished the moment he heard the door open._

_As much as he wanted to call out and demand who they were, only a thin wisp of a whimper was able to pass his lips. A cool hand was placed on his forehead and a woman's voice said, "Oh, my dear, don't fret."_

_Urging himself to at least open one eye, Peter slowly blinked his left eye open and a hazy form dressed in red was all that he could see. The woman giggled and whispered, "Don't tell mean old Arthur that I'm hear, will you? He's not suppose to know."_

_All Peter could do was nod and the woman hummed happily before sitting down next to him, somehow moving his head to her lap without even a twinge of pain. She began to run her fingers through his hair and said, "One day, I know you'll grow up and become even more powerful than the British Empire. And when you do, I want to sing you a very special song."_

_Her voice was soothing to his ears and, by some magic or luck or sheer will, he found himself asking, "Do you promise? That I'll get stronger? To sing me a song?"_

_"I promise," she told him. Red was the last thing he saw, her voice the last thing he heard, and her lips against his forehead the last thing he felt before he relaxed into sleep._

* * *

Madeline was currently on her flight to her next destination. As she looked out of the window she couldn't help but smile fondly at the recent memories of her younger step-brother.

She hadn't expect Peter to have been there. She knew from Alfred that Arthur, along with both Sweden and Finland, would never have allowed Peter to go out on his own, let alone go back to Sealand at all. Madeline had always wondered why, but neither of the New World siblings knew; that was just how it was. And even though she knew it was a little risky, Madeline had to see Peter herself. He was still young - not even a century old! - and all the younger micronations were prone to forget things easily.

 _'Besides,'_ Madeline thought, sadness dimming the sparkle in her eyes, _'it's not like I was there for much of his life anyway. I'm sure he couldn't recognize me even if he tried.'_

This is how she spent her last day in England, the thoughts of Peter never leaving her mind. She was quite aware that most of her fellow Nations thought Peter was just an annoying little kid, so she wanted to see the compound for herself. And while Peter kept her company for her remaining day, seeing him once again brought back memories of her own days as Arthur's colony.

And as Madeline's eyes slowly drifted shut for her next plane ride, she started to dream of those times when she would hide in the rose bushes, just looking at the clouds, while trying not to fall asleep in the suns' warmth. She smiled and thought, _'I guess some things never really change.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: There was a public aquarium in South Oak Bay at The Oak Bay Marina near the city of Victoria, in British Columbia, Canada named Sealand of the Pacific that had opened in 1969. It closed down in November of 1992.


	6. From Sealand to Iceland

Iceland was glad for the silence. He didn't get it often, or at all, even when the World Meetings were over. Iceland rolled his eyes and scoffed. Please, like anyone would get even a little silence at one of those meetings. Though, he did like the stupid story both Spain and France had managed to get Germany to believe, as it meant that Lukas couldn't bother him with that whole 'big brother' nonsense. Lukas always tried to get Iceland to say 'big brother', as Norway and Iceland (the landmasses, mind you) were very close. Iceland shivered, not liking to call Norway that even in his mind.  
  
Iceland (with Mr. Puffin) was currently walking on one of his many cliffs, volcanoes that dotted his land spewing out opaque ash randomly. Iceland first sighed with pleasure as he took in the land that was his. The smells, the sounds, the sights; all his. Not to mention that most people would not go out so far into the land of Iceland as he would, knowing he would not injure himself or get lost, thus making the sounds of nature the only he thing heard.  
  
Then Iceland stopped his strolling and sighed in frustration as he looked around, remembering why he came out to the cliffs in the first place. Because none of the countries were suppose to meet with each other, as that would apparently 'hinder' the ability of knowing if the so-called unusual woman was in their country, Lukas was calling him non-stop.  
  
Norway couldn't speak to anyone else as Romania, apparently, was busy arguing with Hungary (again and probably over nothing, like always); no one heard from England after the news of him actually _seeing_ the fabled woman France and Spain saw got to everyone via Japan; and Norway simply didn't _want_ to talk to Denmark. Though Denmark was trying very hard to break Germany's rules and not get caught; or when he wasn't doing that, doing to Norway what Norway was doing Iceland- which was calling him over and over and over and _over_ again, complaining (Iceland never did figure out how Norway managed to complain without pitching his monotone voice differently) about someone/something bugging them.  
  
(For Denmark, it was apparently (as it was Lukas that told him, and, well, it _sounded_ completely like something Denmark would complain about) that he wouldn't be able to see 'his precious Norge' as Germany was keeping a close eye on him, among other countries. Of course, that's exactly what Norway was complaining about, Denmark's complaining.)  
  
Iceland looked down towards Mr. Puffin, who was seated on his shoulder, and started to speak. What Iceland said he did not know. It was most likely random gibberish that usually comes out of ones' mouth when they talk and don't know what to say. Iceland only clued himself in when he realized he was talking about the woman England, France, and Spain 'saw'; not even paying attention to the little vibration that spread through his veins.  
  
"If I were to meet her, I'd ask for her name. Not her country name, her human name. I don't know why, but I feel as though she would like that better than her country name. And they really didn't say what she looked like, though knowing France, he probably wouldn't have brought her up if she wasn't beautiful. I wonder if she's smart, too. She would have to be to know to walk away from France and Spain, them being pedophiles and all. I wonder what name she would give me. Yeah, I've already been over the whole name thing, but I can't help but wonder if it'd fit her. I'd be mad if I were her. I mean, everyone not knowing who you are? That's a little harsh, though I can't help but feel like a hypocrite because I know that I'd also not know who she is if I saw her."  
  
It was here that Iceland cut himself off with another sigh, knowing that if he kept on rambling, he would then start to sound like Norway in that he'll start talking to things that aren't there. He also voiced this thought, and jumped when a voice answered him back, making him think that it was too late for him to be saved.  
  
 _"Oh, ne vous inquiétez pas, vous ne serez pas, mais on ne parle pas de choses non-existantes. Certains parlent de choses que ils peuvent ou veulent voir~."_  
  
Then it seemed to only repeat what it said, this time in English. (English was something all the countries learned over time, just like their people. The 'Universal Language' and all that.)  
  
 _"Oh, don't worry, you won't, but no one talks to non-existing things. Some talk to things only they can or want to see~."_  
  
Iceland was too busy spinning around, looking like an idiot and feeling like one as he should have noticed the feeling of someone being there, but of course, was just too caught up in his ramblings. He already made one strike, and he unknowingly made two as he didn't comprehend what the voice sounded like, just what it said. He missed strike three as he kept quiet, rather than shouting out 'who are you?', as that would have surely made the voice leave.  
  
Iceland could finally see who it was and promptly felt his cheeks heat. It wasn't like Sealand, as he found her very pretty, though she was, it was because the details that were described from England (via Japan), France, and Spain were found on the woman before him. Standing in front of him was the same woman he had been rambling about and he couldn't help but be embarrassed by it.  
  
She walked over to him, her calf-high, brown boots making no sounds as she made her way to stand across from Iceland; on the other side of the volcanic opening they were at. Iceland opened and closed his mouth, trying to find something to say, until he realized that the steam rising from the volcanic fissure melded both of their figures into shapes that would be hard to identify. (I.e. she didn't know he was there and if she did, she couldn't figure out what he was.)  
  
 _Well, her voice did sound like it had a lilt to it. So she could just be singing..._  
  
Iceland was right, as she continued her lilting speech in the same language as before.  
  
 _"Rien peut-être là, mais cela ne signifie pas que nous sommes seuls. Si nous voulons une société, tout ce que vous avez à faire est de fermer les yeux et rêve~."_  
  
As the steam settled some, he could see her closed eyes as her ponytail, holding golden hair (so they weren't spouting lies), waved back and forth from her movement, her plain jean shorts and t-shirt making her unique qualities stand out quite a bit. She then, once more, repeated the phrase in English.  
  
 _"Nothing might be there, but that doesn't mean we're alone. If we want some company, all you have to do is close your eyes and dream~."_  
  
And just like the others, right when the hole before them burst with more fog, he saw the flash of her eyes.  
  
 _They weren't kidding._  
  
Iceland was practically forced into his own memory from a long ago past, one that seemed so far away that he was on the other side of the world. And in a way, he was.  
  
 _He was only a little child when big brother Lukas told him that Denmark sent them a letter, telling them they had someone to meet. Norway didn't want to go, nor did he want to bring Iceland along with him, but knowing Denmark and his constant whining decided to just get it over with.  
  
It was a long journey, had to be as Denmark now resided in Vinland, if only for the time being. Iceland remembered that Lukas had been furious at Denmark's vague request, cursing under his breath when he thought Iceland wasn't in hearing distance. As they landed, spotting Denmark on the shore with something wrapped up in his arms, Norway made haste to throttle and then, but only then, possibly lecture the Dane. When the two got closer however, they noticed the little body in Denmark's arms. Smaller than Iceland, he didn't see much besides the unique eyes that popped brightly in the winter wonderland they were in as the infant blinked at him. And it was then did they have a name.  
  
"This is Vinland, say 'hi'!"_  
  
Iceland was shocked out of his memory when the unique woman stopped her vocals, her figures' movement also stopping. Before anything could click in either country's mind, he tried to get to the woman, running around the steaming volcano opening; but he knew it fruitless as he saw the shape leave even before he got to the other side. So, Iceland did the next thing to go through his clouded mind: he ran home and to the telephone.  
  
 _Oh, man, I have to tell big brother!_  


* * *

Madeline was starting to get suspicious. Every time she was alone (well, could she call sitting by herself but still in front of a lot of people alone?) she was getting the attention of _someone!_ Whether they were staring at her, like in Spain, finding her hiding spot, like in France, being on the same _deserted road_ , like in England, or the nation being there, like in the trip to Sealand; she couldn't be alone!  
  
(She didn't know if these were coincidences or not, but she wasn't focused on that... yet.)  
  
She continued her inner ranting as she walked to the place where Iceland had stood only minutes before. Now, when she was sure that no one would be out by the volcanoes, someone was there! Though she was positive that the person was there first (she couldn't tell if the person was a guy or a girl, she only heard some muffled talking when she first wandered up) she couldn't help but want to be alone.  
  
Was that too much?  
  
It was only then did Madeline understand the horrific irony of her want.  
  
She'd been alone for so long, that when other people started to get closer, she couldn't stand to be close to the person. Madeline didn't know about emotionally or mentally, but physically? That was apparently too much for her introverted body to handle and so she made haste to get out of sight.  
  
 _Like just now. I could have called out or even walked up to the other person. But no, I was scared by the prospect of seeing; of talking to another person that would be my first face to face conversation in over almost half a century._  
  
Though Madeline was enjoying the sights and finding new and interesting facts about the country she was residing in, she couldn't help but sigh in each country. She didn't know exactly what she was sighing for or what emotions were let out by her sighs. She just felt that she needed to do so. Just to find some way to let out her feelings of her accidental-on-purpose isolation. To smile in a saddened way or give more than a few tears.  
  
And so, alone on that cliff top, she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: Thanks to archaeology in 1960, it has been proven that Vikings reached Canada- Newfoundland to be exact- approximately five centuries prior to the voyages of Christopher Columbus in 1492.


	7. From Iceland to Norway

Norway knew the next time he saw either Denmark or Emil, he was going to kill them. Denmark for being Denmark and Emil for leaving him to deal with Denmark.  
  
So, you can understand that when the phone rang _again_ , he wasn't too keen on answering the damn thing. Thank God for answering machines though, so he knew to take Emil to... _someone_ to get him looked at. Who would you take an ailing/hallucinating country to?  
  
...Well, after he pretty much drowned in his smugness and the feeling of great satisfaction.  
  
 _"Big brother, you'll never guess what I just saw! Well, not what, but who! I saw her, big brother! It was the woman who France, Spain, and England were talking about!"_  
  
Little Emil seemed to not have realized what he said as he went on trying to get Norway to pick up, only to be cut off by the recorder, as it only had so much room. It must have been then that he realized what he said. When Emil was cut off, he didn't call back to continue the pointless mission of getting Norway to answer the phone.  
  
It was only when his head cleared from his ego being stroked, as it always did when he was called 'big brother' -and no, he did _not_ have a brother complex, thank you very much- did the words finally register.  
  
And he had to inwardly scoff at the nonsense that filled Emil's mind.  
  
That was almost a week ago, and Norway had the feeling of another country, only a day after Emil's phone call. He just wrote it off as Denmark trying to find his way to Norway's house. It has happened before.  
  
Norway, shaking off the recent memory and thoughts of the obnoxious Dane, looked towards the clock, grateful that he did so, as it reminded him of his 'appointment' with his fairies and it gave him the distraction to shove Emil's ridiculous notion to the back of his mind.  
  
(Though, seeing as he was trying to ignore a more plausible claim, then, let's say, seeing _fairies_ , seemed slightly ironic.)  
  
So, Norway left his home and made his way to the forest right outside his house (like he would want to be near people, even if they were his own) and followed the invisible path as night descended, tracing it to the clearing as easily as knowing the back of his own hand. (Or knowing when to be in said forest as Denmark was known for coming by randomly, though his presence wasn't always unwanted... just most of the time, and it always was unwelcome.)  
  
But as Norway steadily got closer to the clearing his fairy friends resided in, he felt the familiar vibration that went through his nerves once more and groaned, having the sinking feeling that Denmark managed to get past Germany and finally found his house, as the feeling was stronger and closer than before.  
  
 _Good thing I'm already in the forest, then._  
  
So Norway continued on his trek, waiting for the telltale sound of Denmark yelling. Instead, Norway got the sweet sound of a woman's laughter.  
  
And it froze him to the _core._  
  
Norway started to run to his fairies, many theories going through his head at the unexpected noise. Fairies, despite their initial appearance, were known for humiliating humans; sometimes going to extreme levels that could be considered painful. So, Norway had every right to worry.  
  
 _Maybe they lured another human here to torment. Could it be that younger female nation always around Switzerland? No, he wouldn't allow it. It could be a young human girl. Wait, most people can't even see fairies. So why would someone be laughing in the middle of a-?_  
  
Norway's inner monologue, quite like Spain's, cut off as he came upon the clearing to see his fairies... and a spinning woman. Her golden hair was twirling about her, just like her silver dress, seeming in all honesty the priceless jewel the two colors made her to be. It transformed her into a diamond.  
  
She was barefoot, laughing in joy as she danced along with the fairy tale beings and Norway just couldn't believe that she could see them. The fairies lights' twinkled and blinked, dancing and swirling with the gem of a woman. She had to be a country. No human could see his fairies, and even if they could, the fairies would have had her upside down by now.

 _Which meant-_  
  
It was as the woman, and therefore the fairies, noticed him as he stepped closer did he see her eyes pop open in surprise, as they were previously closed during her joyous bout of spinning.  
  
 _-it was her._  
  
It only lasted a second though, as the soft glow of his friends was now a direct and bright light in his eyes but that was all he needed. Her eyes glowed like the beings that were surrounding them both, the colors blending and mixing to make her worth more than any gold or silver or diamond. They reminded him of his own unusually colored eyes, but as his were dull, hers' were bright in the happiness she felt.  
  
It reminded him of different eyes, brightened up in a different type happiness long ago...  
  
 _The child, now know to be Vinland, waved his little hand, shying away from Norway's blank stare. The older country was still trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Denmark had Vinland in his arms. Or how Denmark found Vinland in the first place. Or why Vinland was willingly in the obnoxious Danes' arms._  
  
Or why Vinland let himself be taken and cooed over as if he wasn't a land of mystery and ageless mountains, rivers, and streams; perhaps, in actuality, older than the man whose arms he was in. Norway had to remember that a country could be older than you, but because of never being founded, risked locking themselves in an infant's body or simply looking younger than they ought to be.  
  
Norway finally focused on Denmark's expression, now wondering how such a child could bring a big smile like that to Denmark's face. The Dane turned to both Norway and Emil, Iceland went up to Vinland and stuck his hands in the air for the 'new' country. Norway saw how the boys' eyes sparkled in clashing innocence and wisdom; his earlier statement filtering in the back of his mind. Though his body small, he already seemed ages past even Denmark, who had let him go; passing Vinland to Iceland and then on to Norway. Such happiness in those eyes as the supposed child warmed from his everlasting cold.  
  
Such as the happiness in the woman when she had danced amongst the fairies and the stars.  
  
He knew past tense was correct in this case, for even before the blinding light was lifted, he could feel her retreating; back to where ever she had come from. But as it did lift Norway knew that he was going to cut off their meeting short.  
  
He had a call to Germany to make.

* * *

Madeline saw him. She knew who she saw as Norway, who else would fairies go to?  
  
Madeline was currently laying in her hotel room, Kumamarie on her stomach and sleeping the night away. Since she knew about Norway's fascination in mythical creatures (sometimes it pays off to pay attention to Alfred's ramblings, especially when he talks about Arthur actually having friends) she decided to go see if there were any in his country.  
  
When she and Alfred were Arthur's colonies, he taught them how to locate areas of magic, especially when they showed that they had their own magical abilities. So, Madeline focused and concentrated on her own magic, spreading it out until it touched other pockets of magic. Then she set off.  
  
Yeah, it was pretty simple after getting the hang of it.  
  
(However, she really wished that she could do more than turn invisible and feel the presence of other magic users like her. Like stealing someones' confidence, that would be handy.)  
  
When she had found herself on the edge of a forest, she had slipped off her lavender sandals, her dress dancing in the breeze the evening gave her; cold enough to feel it, but not enough that she really _felt_ it. As she started her way into the forest, she had to remind herself why doing this at night was a good idea.  
  
 _Because this is when magic looks the most beautiful, thanks to the stars. It shimmers and glows like fireflies._  
  
It was at the edge of a clearing did she find what she was looking for.  
  
Fairies.  
  
Madeline had gasped as she took in the sight. The fairies seemed to be dancing with one another, in swirls and spirals, twirling and making shapes. A few fairies, when Madeline alerted them with her gasp, were now weaving in between her limbs and hair. One flew up and gave her nose a little kiss, a bubble of laughter rising from her throat.  
  
It was as the stars finally came out in their full glory and Madeline was spinning with the fairies, her eyes and words brimming with excitement and laughter, that she noticed a visitor. And it seemed she wasn't the only one.  
  
Mystical yet chilled, ocean eyes met hers' and Madeline took in the expressionless face and floating curl before the fairies had flown (ran?) off towards the man, his face now lost in their lights.  
  
Madeline ran off, her earlier giddiness fading into the want of getting away from the monotone Nordic. And thus she found herself once more in the room she booked.  
  
Even she herself did not know why she ran. Maybe because of the way he looked at her. Or that she did not know just how long he was there, watching her. Or that small spark of recognition...  
  
 _What? You don't_ want _people to notice you?_  
  
Madeline shook her head, internally grateful that she was by herself and not in public as she must have seemed crazy (not that it kept her from _feeling_ crazy...), knowing that yes she did want to be noticed... but not like that. Not by a mere coincidence. That they would just so _happen_ to recognize her existence now; no way, no how.  
  
 _But what if it_ wasn't _just a coincidence? What if you_ did _something about it?_  
  
With that thought in mind, the last as she slipped off to dream, she made a vow, an oath of sorts to herself.  
  
 _If who I am seeing_ are _other countries, then I'll need proof before I do anything. First up is one big, quiet nation. Let's see if I'm right..._  
  
And though it was small... she fell asleep with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: Norway is known for having an extensive list of fairy tales and folktales that include many creatures such as fairies, trolls, witches, talking animals, spirits, and even the forever-told stories of princesses.


	8. From Norway to Sweden

As news was sent of more nations seeing the infamous maybe-not country in the last few weeks, Sweden could only wait until he felt her himself. So, when he did, he wasn't too shocked. He didn't know her intentions, or why she was going to all the countries, but as there were only a number of countries she could go next, one being incredibly important to him, he was going to see if she was really a threat.  
  
So when he felt the presence of another country, presumably the woman, at least that's who Sweden expected, over the course of the week he felt her grow closer and farther in where she was to where he was. It was as she got the closest to him on the sixth day did Sweden act out from his normal routine and went out to find her.  
  
Sweden heard the stories, he knew he was the first person to go out and _try_ to find the woman. He also heard from Spain, France, England, Iceland, and even Norway to get a good look at her eyes. Spain and France already stated how she looked familiar, reminding them of someone they knew. England only gave a short message to Japan and has not yet contacted anyone so far.  
  
Sweden didn't know why that was as he went over the information that was presented in his head, slowly yet surely getting closer to the woman that held his thoughts at present time, but knowing what England was doing now was not necessary.  
  
Next was Iceland and Norway who were both reminded of Vinland, only sharing the name with him, Tino, and Denmark. They gave the same explanation that Spain and France gave to everyone else; that her eyes were familiar.  
  
(Technically, they weren't lying.)  
  
He ended his thoughts when the woman felt almost on top of him. As Sweden located noises in front of him, he found himself a nearby tree bulky enough to hide him. He didn't want to go about this like the others, scaring her off as soon as she spots them. He wished to see her relaxed in a state she finds comfortable enough to not immediately put her guard up.  
  
So, he waited much like a hunter would. But when he saw her, his 'prey', he did not pounce. She looked much too delicate for that, not to mention it would give himself away. The woman (who Sweden thought should really have a name, it was awkward just calling her 'the woman') was simply walking through the trees, almost as if she was looking for something, her eyes darting around.  
  
For being in an ankle length dress, she moved swiftly. When the woman turned, Sweden noticed a slit in the side of the dress, giving away how she moved quickly, showing heeled boots that adorned her feet in soft leather. How she managed to walk steadily through the trees astounded him, as her shoes seemed more for city-strolling than forest-hiking. The woman, with her hair in a braid running the length of her spine, sighed and sat on a nearby fallen tree.  
  
She looked like a modern version of different women from different bedtime stories:  
  
The German Snow White when she was lost in the forest, the French Little Red Riding Hood as she tried to find a way away from the wolf (her wine colored dress only adding to the effect), the European Cinderella when she sat at the edge of the stairs, wishing to go to the ball. A lost princess, simply wondering when her Happily Ever After would come.  
  
(Yet Sweden detected determination, even with her eyes downcast, something none of those fairy tale women had. She was closer to the Asian warrior from one of America's movies.)  
  
But Sweden could tell that while she was whimsical, she carried a hardened heart and mind; thus making her more fit for the role of a Viking Queen than a simple princess. The dagger in it's sheath hiding from view when the slit of her dress closed and her pricked ears, listening for movement, would agree with him.  
  
It was known that Sweden is very quiet and, most of the time, a (unwillingly) very scary country. His imitating stature dominate those around him, making them wonder what exactly Sweden was thinking (causing some lesser nations to faint when both Sweden and Russia were in seeing distance). But when the Viking Queen raised her head high, exposing her eyes, everything Sweden was thinking raced through his eyes, no longer veiled.  
  
(This is also the best part of knowing how to stay still and control your breathing as to keep quiet; she didn't notice him.)  
  
The halting look in her eye, it showed her steel desire in whatever it was she was doing. The softened look behind that, that said whatever it was she was doing, it promised no harm to anyone. That is what Sweden remembered seeing in Vinland whenever the two got to meet. Norway and Iceland were not kidding.  
  
 _Tino was once more a steaming red color (out of anger or embarrassment, the Swede couldn't really tell), close to full-on running down the corridor and out the door, passing Sweden by and leaving him bewildered. Sweden could only guess at what had occurred, but seeing the gold spun hair and hearing the pitter-patter of a child's feet gave him a pretty decent idea._  
  
Ever since Denmark brought Vinland back to Europe with him, Norway and Iceland already attached to the boy, it was Tino out of all of them that Vinland decided to call 'Mati'- mother. Though while he was closest to Denmark out of the 5 of them, he made sure never to call Denmark 'Ata'- father. When Denmark asked Vinland why he did not, Vinland simply replied with, "Well, I don't think Mati likes you enough for you to be Ata. I think the big, quiet one would be Ata." Denmark says that at this point, Vinland had lowered his voice to just above a whisper, "I think Ata already likes Mati."  
  
When Tino heard of this, he promptly blushed anytime he and Sweden were in a room together. But the type of red Tino was wearing as he passed was special, as it could only come by trying to get an explanation out of the young boy. Whenever Tino tried, he always got the same answer: "Because you are Mati and he is Ata. That is why."  
  
The look the Viking Queen had, when worn by Vinland, was always Sweden's fondest memory of the younger country. It was because whenever Sweden asked for an explanation, that very same look would appear in his eyes as he gave the real answer.  
  
"Because you are Ata and you love Mati, but Mati doesn't know. So, I call him Mati because you are his Ata." Though it was in a child's language, Sweden readily understood, always making sure to pat the much smaller country on his head whenever the answer he asked for was given.  
  
Because Sweden loved the Finnish coutnry, but Tino didn't know, Vinland was trying in his own special way of saying the words Sweden didn't, and couldn't at the time. The formidable: I love you.  
  
The look in his eyes then gave him hope. The look in her eyes now gave him awe.  
  
Sweden focused once more, coming out of his stupor the memory served him. The woman had gone from looking at the sky to glaring at the trees in the moments he spaced out. Her eyes were a swirl of different colors, never really focusing on one, much like one's emotions would change rapidly when in turmoil, making what color they really were unclear.  
  
The Viking Queen stood up from her seat and walked past Sweden's hiding place. Sweden poked his head out of the shade of the tree, fast enough to see the Queen brush past bushes and leaves to promptly vanish in the shadows the plant life provided for her. Sweden blinked, looking around before following the trail she had left behind, only for it to be swallowed up in the wind; gone just as fast as the woman whom put them there.  
  
Sweden knew then that he must tell this to the others in the following days. After all, next week is when the next World Meeting takes place.  
  


* * *

Madeline was close to screaming.  
  
Not only that during her other stays she was tensed, wondering who the next person to find her would be, but when the _only_ time she went out to actually _look_ for the country she resided in at that time, he was no where to be found! Now she just felt paranoid...  
  
Even Kumamarie couldn't make her feel better- and seeing as the little polar bear has always been her comfort, even before knowing the Nordics, that was saying something. It was only in Spain was she found around other people, so she thought that if she went into another forest or a field, then perhaps the next person (possibly Sweden) would find her. She had no such luck.  
  
Madeline knew she was missing something, something important. But what it was, it simply escaped her grasp. She also knew that if she wanted her plan to work, she would need this information. How she was going to get it, she didn't know nor did she know where to get it from.  
  
I mean, she saw all of them so far (at least, she thought it was them), why would trying to find them now be so hard?  
  
 _I should take in the country's personality into account before trying something like this again._  
  
Now that she thought about it, Sweden really wasn't one to simply stumble upon someone and stare. The others, though, perhaps.  
  
 _Maybe I should do something to make them want to find me...?_  
  
Madeline didn't know what that thing could be... but if only she knew she had already done enough.  
  
 _But...?_  
  
Do I really want that...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact: Finland was annexed by Sweden during the 13th century and was ruled by Swedish monarchs up until 1809. Finland was a fully integrated part of the Swedish realm and legally the Finns had the same rights and duties as Swedish citizens; hence why Sweden feels entitled to Finland as his 'husband'.


End file.
